Mikey burst out of the building, lungs burning, legs already in motion. The cold night air hit his face like a slap, but he didn't stop—not even to breathe. He sprinted down the illuminated sidewalks of Sector B, weaving through groups of partygoers and blinking traffic signs, eyes locked on the approaching E-train platform.
The moment the train hissed to a stop, he leapt aboard, barely waiting for the doors to slide open.
He stood in the center of the car, gripping the overhead rail, shoulders heaving with adrenaline. The cabin was quiet save for the low whir of motion and the distant mutter of conversations. But in Mikey's mind, everything was noise.
What the hell was that? What just happened?
His foot tapped furiously against the metal floor. His eyes were dark and unfocused, staring ahead but seeing nothing. His other hand—shoved deep into his coat pocket—curled around the smooth handle of the blade.
Her knife…
His thumb ran over it in slow circles. He could still see the moment—her arm flashing out, that Council soldier going down, blood mixing with the shine of the rooftop lights.
She killed a man with this…
And yet…
He gritted his teeth, jaw tight with conflict.
Why do I still feel like I need to protect her? She's a Defector so why am I so pissed...
The doors hissed again. The train slowed.
Sector C.
Before the doors fully opened, Mikey was already shoving his way out. He didn't care who he bumped into, didn't care about the curses people threw his way. All he could hear was the sound of his own breath, and the pounding thud of his heart.
He tore through the streets, past storefronts and glowing neon signs, dodging a cleaning drone and nearly slipping in the rain-slick pavement.
The whole way, the questions screamed in his head:
Was she lying? Is my dad really… one of them?Did he know about Nadia? Did Payne?
He sprinted harder.
Streetlights bled past in a blur.
He didn't care about anything right now except the one person who might have answers.
Dad… you better tell me the truth.
Mikey stormed into the lobby of the high-rise, his boots skidding slightly against the polished floor. The night concierge blinked in surprise, halfway rising from behind the desk, but Mikey didn't slow down. He slapped his hand against the elevator pad—once, then twice, like urgency would make it move faster.
"Come on… come on…"
The elevator doors finally slid open. He stepped inside, pacing in place as the car began its long ascent. A dull hum accompanied the rise, but in Mikey's mind, it was drowned out by the whirring storm of questions.
How do I even start this? What if it's true? What if she's lying? What if she's not…
The light above the elevator blinked green.
Penthouse.
The doors opened with a soft chime.
Mikey stepped out and crossed the private hallway to his apartment, practically pressing his whole body weight against the palm scanner. The reader lit up, scanned his print, and gave a satisfying beep before the door slid open with a smooth hiss.
Inside, the air was warm and quiet. Familiar. The scent of roasted vegetables lingered faintly in the air—leftover from whatever Desmond had made himself for dinner.
Mikey stepped in slowly.
Across the living room, Desmond stood behind the marble kitchen island, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, drying a glass with a white cloth. His coat lay draped across the back of a chair. The man looked peaceful, domestic—even casual—as he hummed something under his breath and glanced toward his son.
"Well," Desmond said with a small grin, not looking up from the glass, "you're home earlier than I thought. How'd it go with the lady?"
Mikey didn't answer.
His silence hit the room like a rock through a window.
Desmond's smile faded mid-dry. He set the glass down, slowly, and turned fully to face him, taking in Mikey's heavy breathing and wild eyes.
"You alright, son?"
Mikey didn't speak for a second. He just stood there—his chest rising and falling, the blade in his pocket suddenly feeling heavier than ever. His face was flushed, jaw tight, words caught somewhere in his throat.
Then, with a voice that trembled beneath its resolve, he said:
"We need to talk."
Desmond raised an eyebrow. A flicker of confusion passed across his face. He gave a half-laugh, trying to ease whatever this was.
"It went that bad, huh?"
But Mikey didn't laugh.
He just stared.
And Desmond's smile dropped for good.
Desmond's eyes locked onto his son's, wary now—serious. The calm in the room felt artificial, like the seconds before a storm broke the sky in half.
"Okay…" he said slowly, cautiously, reading Mikey like a fuse he wasn't sure was lit. He moved to the dining table and sat down, the back of his chair facing the vast glass wall that overlooked Sector C. That same sky Mikey had leapt into just hours ago.
Back then, he'd been running on instinct. Tonight, he was drowning in doubt.
Mikey stayed standing.
His hand, still trembling slightly, reached into his pocket. With a breath so heavy it quaked in his chest, he pulled out the blade—her blade—and placed it on the table.
The metallic clink echoed through the apartment like a gunshot.
Blood dried dark along the handle. The emblem engraved near the hilt caught the city light: a horseshoe-shaped U, pierced by a wicked spike from the center—twisted into a jagged W.
The mark of the Defectors.
Mikey stared at his father.
But Desmond… Desmond couldn't tear his eyes from the knife.
His jaw clenched. His breath hitched.
He recognized it.
He recognized her.
"…Why are you showing me this, Mikey?" Desmond's voice was low. Measured. Controlled—but too much so. Like a man gripping the edge of a cliff with bleeding knuckles, trying to pretend he wasn't slipping.
Mikey's eyes burned.
He slammed the table, the sound sharp and desperate.
"Tell me. Dad… you know who this belongs to, don't you? Don't you?!"
Desmond exhaled through his nose. Defeated. The truth, unspoken, already alive in the room between them.
"So she was the girl you were talking about…" he muttered, almost to himself. "Goddamn it. That wasn't her mission."
Mikey flinched like he'd been slapped.
"So you do know. It's true, huh? You're one of them…"
He swallowed hard, the word feeling like a curse in his mouth.
"A Defector."
Desmond looked up at his son. What he saw was worse than anger—it was betrayal. Raw. Unfiltered. The kind that cracked bone.
His voice softened.
"Son, let me explain—"
"You lied to me."
Desmond stood. "I had to. To protect you. You weren't ready—"
"You should've told me! You should've raised me different!"
"I know. I know I should've. But—" Desmond's voice cracked, "—I was trying to give you a childhood… something normal. I thought… maybe if I kept you away from all this…"
He took a step closer.
"Mikey, the Council—" he hesitated, "—they're not what you think. They're corrupt. They've been lying to you. Lying to everyone."
But Mikey shook his head, eyes glassy, throat tight.
"You lied to me. Not them."
Desmond's face twitched, his hands lifting—pleading. "I was trying to protect you, son. God, if you knew half the things they've done—"
"They killed Mom!" Mikey shouted suddenly, and the words shattered whatever restraint was left between them.
The room went deathly still.
Mikey's voice cracked as the pain finally bubbled up from the place he buried it. "The Defectors killed Mom! And you're—you're with them... Were you the one who got her killed?! Was she just collateral to you?!"
Desmond recoiled as if the words physically struck him.
He clenched his fists, his throat tightening with emotion. His eyes, wet now, blazed with grief.
"No!" he roared. "No… God, no."
He slammed a fist onto the table, rattling the glass.
"It was the Council that took Darla away from me. From us." His voice broke as he said her name. "She wasn't just my wife. She was one of us. A Defector. She died trying to stop them."
Mikey staggered back, his mouth ajar. The floor felt unstable beneath him. His reality, upended.
He didn't know what to believe anymore.
"You could say anything right now," he muttered. "And I wouldn't know if it's the truth. Why should I believe you… now?"
Desmond didn't answer.
And Mikey didn't wait.
He turned.
Walked toward the door with heavy steps and a hollow chest.
The silence left behind was a crater, too wide to cross.
Mikey stormed toward the door, his breath ragged, fury still rippling through his chest. He turned back to his Dad to say one final thing.
"I never want to see—"
He stopped cold.
Not because of his father.
But because of what was rising silently into view behind him.
Through the glass wall — cracked from earlier pressure, fractured like the moment itself — an enormous aircraft crested over the skyline. Black, angular, silent but monstrous. Like a predator that had been circling, waiting for its moment.
Mikey's eyes went wide.
"Dad—"
But it was already too late.
From the belly of the aircraft, a missile launched with a vicious whirr-click, then tore through the sound barrier.
Impact.
A white-hot eruption swallowed the room in an instant.
The blast hurled Mikey off his feet like a rag doll, slamming him into the far wall. His head cracked against the steel beam with a sickening thud, and then—
Darkness.
No thoughts.
No sound.
Just black.
And then… ringing. Deafening and sharp, like a tuning fork buried in his skull. The world slowly bled back into shape — colors smeared and doubled, vision swimming in bursts of static and light.
Mikey coughed violently, dust pouring from his mouth. He couldn't hear it. Couldn't hear anything.
Only the high-pitched shriek in his ears.
He lay under a scorched drawer, its weight likely the only thing that shielded him from the blastwave. His hand trembled as he pushed it aside, gasping for breath. His head throbbed, hot and wet — he reached up and felt the sticky warmth running down his forehead.
Blood.
It streamed into his eye, clouding his vision red.
Flashes of fire burst around him — his home, reduced to embers. The once-pristine apartment now a smoldering wreck. The scent of ozone, ash, and burning flesh thick in the air.
Then—
Through the haze.
He saw him.
His father.
Desmond.
Laid face-down in the rubble, motionless. One leg still caught in a small blaze, smoldering like a torch.
Mikey tried to scream.
"Dad!"
But all he heard was silence.
He dragged himself forward with what little strength he had, glass cutting into his hands, coughing up soot, his body refusing to give in until he reached him.
He flipped him over.
And wished he hadn't.
For a brief, flickering second, Mikey thought he saw his father's signature smile — those big, white teeth — the grin that used to make every bad day better.
But it wasn't a smile.
It wasn't even him anymore.
Half of Desmond's face was gone — incinerated, reduced to bone and ash. The other half was unrecognizable, burned raw, lips charred away, an eye rolled back into an empty socket. He didn't blink. He didn't move.
Mikey's body went limp, his knees giving out beneath him. The world around him burned, cracked, howled — and yet all he could feel was stillness. His chest heaved as he stared at what was left of the man who raised him, who lied to him, who loved him — and who had just died to protect secrets Mikey barely understood.
And somewhere, beneath all the noise, his heart shattered.
Mikey held his father in his arms, knees pressed to the scorched floor, the smoke curling around them like a shroud.
Then — sound.
It came back in waves.
First, a low hum. Then the crackle of fire. The collapse of metal. And then—someone screaming.
A raw, guttural wail.
Help?
Did someone find them?
Mikey looked up, frantic, searching through the haze.
But no one was there.
The apartment was still empty, still burning.
And then he understood.
The screaming wasn't someone else.
It was him.
His own voice — ripped straight from his chest — echoing through the ruins of the home he once knew. He was shaking, eyes burning, tears mixing with the dust on his face, the blood running down into the corners of his mouth.
He couldn't stop.
The sound was pure grief. Wordless, hopeless, full of everything he didn't know how to say.
Mikey clutched what remained of his father tighter, the weight of it all crashing down on him. The lies. The truth. The love. The betrayal.
And now this.
Alone in a burning room, screaming into the flames.
Through blurred vision and smoke-stung eyes, Mikey looked up at the shattered window. The night sky beyond flickered with dying embers and distant flames — and there, gliding into the dark horizon, was the aircraft.
The one that killed his father.
Its black hull gleamed against the moonlight, and as it banked, Mikey saw it — bold, unmistakable — the insignia stamped across its side:
The Roundtable and Serpent.
The sigil of the Council.
His breath caught in his throat. Every ounce of doubt, of hesitation, of confusion — burned away in an instant.
It was them.
It was always them.
They killed his mother.
And now, they'd taken his father too.
Mikey's heart pounded with a different kind of pain now — not sorrow, not fear. Rage. Pure, searing rage.
A single face surfaced in his mind, sharp and unshakable.
Payne Morrison.
The Secretary of Defense. The Hero. The liar.
Mikey's fists trembled as he stared into the sky, jaw clenched so tight it hurt. The aircraft grew smaller by the second, but Mikey's fury only grew sharper, colder, louder.
One word slipped from his lips, like a vow.
"Payne."